The Last Sergeant
by TheSoulGiver
Summary: To save his friends, Sherlock Holmes plunges off the rooftops of London and ends his life. However, what happens when the consulting detective returns to life as a Scotland Yard officer, head full of proper "police-stuff," and he begins to wonder if it was all just a dream?
1. Chapter 1

Lestrade didn't recognise him.

Donovan didn't recognise him.

He would have even been relieved if Anderson recognised him…But no luck there, either.

He had been falling, he had crashed, he had _died_…but then he was here, at Scotland Yard. A proper officer. A _police officer_, for god's sake, why in the world would he ever be a police officer? But there he was, at Scotland Yard, head full of proper police…stuff.

Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, was gone.

And in his place stood Sergeant Holmes, as he was known to Lestrade and Donovan. Except he now knew them as Greg and Sally…since when were those their names?

But it felt so strangely familiar to him, as if he had been here for months, even years.

But that was impossible.

It had been just hours ago that he had crashed to the pavement outside the hospital, yet now he was working a case. Working under _procedure, _of all things. Sherlock was on his way back to the hospital to get the DNA samples from the victim for the case, and he found himself vaguely wondering _why_.

_Why_ did he need these samples so badly?

Why couldn't he have just done the tests himself?

_Done the tests himself?_ What was he thinking? Of course he couldn't have done the tests himself; Sherlock was just a sergeant, he left these things to forensics.

He wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start…right?

Sherlock shook his head sharply, trying to rid himself of this feeling of unease. What was wrong with him today? He was just an officer, he had been here at Scotland Yard for years; he was a proper officer, in the back of a cab, on his way to collect the DNA samples for Greg…

It must have been a dream. There was no other rational explanation. Just an extremely vivid dream.

What about John, then, was he just a figment of Sherlock's imagination? John Watson, his best friend, his only friend…

Wait, what was he talking about? Sherlock had plenty of friends on the force; he had a decent social life…although now that he was reflecting on it, Sherlock couldn't quite seem to grasp the details.

And a _consulting detective?_

Sherlock would admit it, it sounded like the kind of job he would have dreamed up for himself, other than his childhood goal of being a pirate, but he had a steady profession at Scotland Yard. There was nothing else he would ever dream of doing.

Right?

But Sherlock Holmes never had vivid dreams. His brain never shut off or slowed down, even in sleep, and the closest thing to a dream he'd ever experienced was a whirlwind of words and images, but never anything coherent or meaningful.

Until now, apparently.

But the main thing that bothered Sherlock about this whole business was the end of the dream. From hearing people's dull accounts of nightmares and even John's occasional frightened confessions in the middle of the night (no, no, John was just a figment of his imagination, it was just a story created by his mind…), most people's terrifying dreams seemed to end as a prelude to a final resolution, usually death.

However, Sherlock's dream did not end right before he hit the pavement outside the hospital; he clearly remembered smashing into the ground, a split second of blinding pain, then…nothing. He was dead, he remembered being dead, before a bright light reached out and consumed him.

Then he was here, a proper officer.

Nothing more.

But…this John Watson. His best friend, John Watson. Sherlock had to go and find him, because if anyone would remember him, it would be John. It _had _to be John; Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of his best friend, John Watson, having no idea who he was.

Or, worse, John simply seeing him as one of those idiotic police officers they always had to go solve cases for, because the police was apparently completely incapable of success.

Sherlock _hated_ this immense doubt he was drowning in; he was always completely sure of himself, and nearly always right, at that. Why should something like this throw him off so badly?

_It was a dream,_ he told himself firmly as he stepped out of the cab and paid the driver, heading up the stairs of the hospital, ignoring the jolt that he got when he walked over the pavement outside the building.

_Just a dream._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock entered the pathology department in somewhat of a daze, barely listening to the pathologist on duty, Molly Hooper, as she bustled around the lab tables.

Molly was someone who seemed as though she should have meant something to him, almost as though she were a friend in another life. But in another life, Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. Molly Hooper was still there for him, anything that he needed…

"Oh, hello, Sherlock, I've got the DNA samples right here for you, just give me a moment," Molly called over to the tall man in the doorway, moving to a table in the corner and turning her back to him as she sorted through the specimens.

Sherlock pushed down a sudden surge of disappointment; Molly didn't even seem to recognise him as the man he once was. No, the man he _thought_ he once was. The man who didn't exist. Who never existed. Never _would_ exist.

Sherlock barely noticed that Molly Hooper was still talking, her usual nervous chatter echoing absurdly through the sterile empty lab.

"I don't really see why Lestrade needed more DNA samples from the victim; he already had plenty from her hairbrush and bloodstains, but I suppose he has his reasons. I don't suppose you've had any new leads, have you? I have to admit, I'm quite curious – "

There was an abrupt crash followed by the unmistakable tinkling of broken glass as Molly's nervous chatter suddenly ceased, and a stunned sort of silence dominated the room.

Molly turned slowly, eyes trained, transfixed, at Sherlock. The forgotten glass shards crunched in protest under her shoes, but she didn't seem to notice. She approached Sherlock with a strange sort of disbelieving awe across her face, walking up to him until they were standing merely inches apart, face to face. She tentatively reached out a finger and poked him firmly in the chest, causing the sergeant to rock back slightly on his heels before bouncing back into his flat-footed position.

"You're alive," Molly said simply, staring at the point on Sherlock's chest where her finger had made contact. "But you were dead; I _saw_ you die!"

Sherlock didn't respond, but simply watched in silence as the pathologist wrung her hands irritatedly in front of her, pacing back and forth as she continuously raked her eyes over the man standing by the doorway.

"You _jumped_, I saw your body hit the pavement, you were a brilliant detective, a bloody brilliant consulting detective, and now you work for _Scotland Yard_, of all places?! How did I ever believe you were an officer, you would make a horrible officer, no offense – "

Molly's ranting was cut off when Sherlock suddenly stepped forward and caught the small pathologist in an embrace, surprising both himself and Molly with this action.

The act of hugging another person felt absolutely alien to Sherlock, but he was just so relieved, so unexpectedly _happy_ as a result of Molly's reaction. She had voiced everything that had been plaguing Sherlock since he woke up and realized he was an officer, and now, he knew that it wasn't just his brain being mental, but that something was very seriously wrong here, and it delighted him.

Sherlock chuckled, his low voice rumbling in his chest as he held the shocked pathologist somewhat awkwardly in his arms, DNA samples forgotten by both of them.

"Molly Hooper…loyal Molly Hooper…" he muttered, finally releasing her, his eyes noticeably brighter. Molly was always there when he really needed her.

"What about John?" Sherlock asked urgently, searching Molly's expression that was still quite dazed from before. "John Watson, John Hamish Watson?"

Something in Molly's expression changed, something that Sherlock couldn't quite identify.

"John's real…?" Sherlock whispered, face lighting up. "Of course he is, what am I talking about? Is he still at Baker Street? I've got to go see him, tell him I'm not dead…"

"Erm, Sherlock?" Molly asked in a small voice, almost too quietly to be heard.

Sherlock kept talking.

"…Naturally, John remembers me, I mean if Molly Hooper did, then John of course wouldn't have forgotten me…"

"Sherlock," Molly said a little bit louder, voice still quavering.

"What?" Sherlock finally replied, turning and looking at her almost dangerously, while something seemed to break behind his eyes. "John's alive, right? He's here in London?"

"Yes, John's fine, Sherlock, he's still at Baker Street. I've been in to check on him a few times after…you know..." Molly took a deep breath.

"How's he been managing? No, never mind, I'll go check on him myself." Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock turned on his heel and started to stride out of the lab door. "Goodbye, Molly!"

"Sherlock, wait!" Molly called after him, her voice unsure, but strong. Sherlock stopped in the doorway, impatient.

"Sherlock, you should know…John doesn't remember any of it."

"I'll keep that in mind. I won't mention the incident, then."

Sherlock made to turn out the door, but Molly spoke again.

"He doesn't remember _any_ of it. Nobody does, Sherlock, except for me. It's as if you were…erased, from everybody's mind. It's as if you never existed. And John is suffering because of it."

Sherlock suddenly felt nauseous. John didn't remember him? John had no idea he existed? John was _suffering_, because of him. Because of his _non-existence_. And there was nothing Sherlock could do about it.

Molly watched Sherlock's face break, and felt the sadness overwhelming her as well. It wasn't fair, none of it was.

"He's sad, all the time, Sherlock, and he doesn't know why. Sometimes he just starts crying and he doesn't realize it. It's absolutely heartbreaking. And I don't know how to fix it."

"I have to go see him," said Sherlock stubbornly, pushing back the pain that was thudding through his chest. "I have to fix it, Molly, it's all my fault…"

There was still a chance. Still a chance to have John back, to have his own life back. And Sherlock wasn't giving up that chance for anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock pushed open the heavy double doors of the hospital and strolled purposefully out onto the sidewalk, whipping off his uniform hat and throwing it to the pavement. He wouldn't need that anymore. Sherlock tried his best not to notice that it hit the sidewalk in precisely the same spot where he had hit the pavement…

As Sherlock raised his hand to flag down a cab, he heard the hospital doors open, followed by the light patter of feet.

"Wait!" called Molly Hooper's breathless voice as she caught up to Sherlock, just as he was about to climb into the cab. "I'm coming with you."

"Molly, that's completely unnecessary – "

"I'm coming." Molly said this so firmly that even Sherlock decided not to argue.

"Fine," he said, leaning up towards the cab driver and saying, "221B Baker Street." With a jolt, Sherlock realised he hadn't even had to think about it before he said it – the phrase still came naturally to his lips.

Molly was watching him, but turned her head quickly to look out the window when he noticed her gaze.

"What is it?" he asked her, searching her expression for his answer nonetheless.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, before turning her head back to stare out the window, her pale face reddening visibly.

"Molly, it is obviously not 'nothing.' Now I advise you to tell me what you feel you should say, _especially_ if it has anything to do with these mysterious events as of late."

Molly glanced back and risked a peek at Sherlock, before dropping her gaze again.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Molly, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – "

" – however improbable, must be the truth. Yeah, I've heard you say that one before." She smiled softly. "Alright, well…this isn't impossible, but to you, at least, it will sound very, very improbable."

Sherlock nodded gravely.

"I can accept that."

Molly pushed her bangs back from her face and took a deep breath before beginning.

"I…had a friend, once. He was called the Doctor."

"Doctor? Doctor who?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep himself from interrupting.

Molly laughed.

"He hated that question, he did…Just 'The Doctor.' I used to travel with him."

"When was this?" said Sherlock.

"About four years ago. Right before I came back to London and got a job at St. Bart's. I was just a student when I ran off with him." A dreamy look had captivated her young features, and she appeared noticeably happier than her usual nervous, tittering self.

"You loved him," Sherlock stated simply.

Molly hesitated, before nodding, only a trace of her usual shyness in her expression.

"It's hard not to. He's so _magnetic, _for anyone who meets him. I think that's why I was so drawn to you when I was left be- when I returned. Not because you're magnetic, you're more like the wrong end of a magnet, no offense – it's hard to get close to you – "

Molly seemed to realise she was babbling.

"…Sorry. Anyway, I meant you reminded me of him. That sounds absurd now that I say that out loud, you and him are like polar opposites on some levels, but…you're both alone. The only one of your kind. And once you both found someone else like you, regardless of how evil they were, they took their own lives, rather than be with you. You're both sad when you think no one can see you, and I think I finally understand why."

Molly chuckled lightly.

"You who look alike, too – tall, thin, dark hair and cheekbones. I think that's initially what made me fall for you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock was silent for several moments as he absorbed this onslaught of information.

"Molly," he began slowly, "no offense, but your friend sounds rather ordinary, and I see nothing improbable about your story thus far – "

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, I kind of forgot to mention the important part…He's a thousand-year-old alien who has a time machine spaceship that looks like a blue phone box." The final few words emerged all in one breath.

"Ah. That…_is_ rather improbable, isn't it?" Sherlock replied.

"Yeah," Molly agreed quietly, glancing sideways at Sherlock.

"You don't believe me," she blurted suddenly, her thin face crumpling slightly as she fell back in her seat. "I knew I shouldn't have told you, I knew you'd only think I was stupid and just wanting attention, I should have made up some story…"

"Molly, you're a horrendous liar, so I wouldn't recommend that last strategy," Sherlock commented. "And…I won't say that I don't believe you. Not yet." _Not while I still have hope._

Molly let out her breath slowly.

"Right. Well, I think he might be able to help. If you want his help. He's quite good at helping people. He told me a story once, from when he was travelling with someone else, and it sounds quite like what's been happening to you. And he was able to fix it, mostly. So, just let me know. If you want his help. If we ask for help, he'll come. Sometimes he's a bit late, but he always shows up."

_That's what I thought about John_, Sherlock thought,_ but where is he now? Where is he when I need him the most? When I'm so lost?_

But all he said was, "Thank you, Molly." And that rare hint of gratitude was all he let show on his face as he climbed out of the cab with Molly Hooper in front of 221B Baker Street.

But when Sherlock turned away, Molly noticed. She noticed the infinite, impossible sadness in this lonely figure. A sadness she knew only too well.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly Hooper had always been good at reading people. Nobody ever cared about Molly Hooper, but this had stopped bothering her years ago. She found that people were often more open around her, even when they didn't realize they were doing it. Someone's true emotions could always be found in their eyes, Molly had learned.

So when Sherlock swept up to the door of 221B with what seemed to be his usual arrogance, Molly could tell that he was nervous. No, more than that. Sherlock Holmes was scared.

But Sherlock was not about to admit to this, and Molly was not about to say anything. That's not what Molly Hooper was here for – Molly was there for anything that he needed, anything at all, and that was the way it was going to stay.

Sherlock reached for the doorknob, but Molly rested a light hand on his arm.

"You really should knock, Sherlock," she said gently. Sherlock sighed, nodding in a resigned sort of way, and he rapped his knuckles firmly on the front of the door instead.

A light pattering of feet sounded from behind the heavy wooden door of 221B, and it swung open to reveal a small, elderly woman in a purple cardigan and floral skirt – Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was pleased to see her, but when she turned to him with the friendly expression that people normally reserve for strangers, his happiness was reduced to a dull irritation that joined his other frustrations, as they buzzed insistently through his brain.

"Hello, dearies, what can I do for you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling cheerfully at Molly and Sherlock.

"We're here to see John Watson," Sherlock said curtly, and Molly gave him a look that clearly said _Lay off, it's not her fault she can't remember you and you know it._ Sherlock suppressed a slight smile. There was no way Molly would have given him a look like that before the fall. His amusement changed quickly to a painful sort of stab in the chest when he realized where he had seen that expression before. At countless crime scenes, John Watson would look up at him disapprovingly, before Sherlock would say some snarky comment about Anderson to make him laugh…

"Oh, I'm sorry, he's not back from work yet," Mrs. Hudson replied in a voice that was considerably more apologetic than she ought to be. "But would you like to come in for a cup of tea while you wait for him?"

Sherlock cursed under his breath, turning away from the door to 221B and running a hand through his curls.

"How could I be so _stupid?_" he muttered, staring up at the sky above the London rooftops at the position of the sun and doing a quick calculation in his head. "It's only five forty-five, and John's shift is done at five-thirty on Tuesdays, and when it's over fifty-five degrees out John walks home from the office…Of _course_…"

Sherlock began running off down the street, calling out a hasty "Come along, Molly!" over his shoulder. Molly followed obediently, resisting the urge to laugh like a madwoman. It was almost like being back with the Doctor again. Almost.

They could hear a very bemused Mrs. Hudson calling after them, "Well, I'll let him know you dropped by!"

Sherlock was sprinting so fast that Molly had quite a difficult time keeping up. Other pedestrians kept giving them curious looks as they dashed past; Sherlock ignored them while Molly tried to give a couple of them apologetic looks.

Sherlock turned the next corner so sharply that Molly nearly missed it. She stumbled around the side of the building and ran straight into Sherlock, who had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Sherlock, what are you – " Molly began, breathing heavily with her hands on her knees. She followed Sherlock's gaze down a couple of blocks and stopped speaking immediately.

It was John.

Molly bit her lip nervously, looking back and forth from Sherlock to the distant John, watching for a reaction. John was limping slowly towards them, head down, cane clutched tightly in his right hand.

_He looks lost,_ Molly thought sadly, regarding his noticeably thinner frame and deviation from his normally military-straight posture. _He looks like how I felt before I found the Doctor,_ she added before she could help herself.

They watched him silently as John shuffled to the edge of the sidewalk, barely glancing up to check for traffic before beginning to make his way across the street.

Suddenly, with an earsplitting screeching of tires, and a sleek black sedan whipped haphazardly around the corner, another car barely feet behind it. Gunshots were issuing from both cars as their passengers hung out of the window to get a proper shot at each other, and police sirens could already be heard in the distance. However, none of this was what caught Sherlock's primary attention.

John Watson was only halfway across the street, standing directly in the path of the oncoming cars. And Molly could tell by the look of helpless terror on the weak doctor's face that he was powerless to save himself.

The cars had barely emerged from around the tight corner when Sherlock sprang into action. He was already halfway down the block by the time Molly had worked out what was happening. She watched with wide eyes as Sherlock leapt into the path of the oncoming cars, grabbing John around the chest and dragging him out of the center of the road.

The drivers were utterly oblivious to the pedestrians they had nearly killed, and just moments later the car in front swerved violently and crashed into the brick building right across the street from Molly. She shrieked, covering her mouth with her hands in surprise. It seemed as though one of the bullets had found its target.

The second car accelerated around the corner in an attempt at escape, but it was blocked by a police car, which had just arrived at the scene. Two more police cars and an ambulance followed, their inhabitants climbing out and swarming around the car that had crashed.

Sherlock and John were still lying in a tangled heap on the pavement several meters down, not yet noticed by the officers from Scotland Yard. John was breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his forehead.

"John! Are you okay?!" Sherlock asked urgently, sweeping John's hand away from his head and checking for any trace of blood or signs of a concussion.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," John replied, his eyes only flicking briefly over Sherlock's face before he turned his head to gape at the commotion at the end of the street. "Jesus…"

Sherlock had no time to say anything else, however; a couple of paramedics rushed down the street towards them, lifting John to his feet and leading him back towards the ambulance, asking questions. One of them muttered a "Good work, sergeant," to Sherlock as they passed, to which Sherlock scowled.

Molly watched this happening, noticing Sherlock's broken expression as John was led away by the paramedics, not even giving Sherlock a second glance. She slowly approached the detective, sitting down on the curb next to him. They were silent for several moments, both of them simply staring at the ground, before Sherlock finally spoke.

"He didn't recognize me."

Molly glanced up at Sherlock's face, which was carefully blank – except for the eyes. His eyes were like impossibly deep pools of water, the surface shimmering slightly in gentle waves of sorrow. Sherlock stared straight ahead, eyes fixed unseeingly at some unknown object in the distance.

"He didn't even _look_ at me."

Sherlock's voice broke a little at the end of the sentence, and one of his hands clenched tightly on top of his knee.

"I'm sorry," Molly whispered, knowing that no matter what she said or how sorry she was, it could never be enough. She gently rested her hand on top of Sherlock's fist, which slowly unclenched under her touch.

"I don't need your pity," Sherlock tried to snarl at her, but the attempt was only half-hearted.

"I know," she replied softly, looking him straight in the eye, squeezing the detective's hand ever so slightly. "But I'm still sorry."

Sherlock didn't reply to this as he pretended to be preoccupied by staring down the street at the crime scene that was rapidly growing more populated. But Molly could have sworn she felt Sherlock squeeze her hand back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Hey guys, sorry this took so long. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

And in that moment, Molly saw it.

She had been just straightening up from her perch on the curb next to the blank-faced Sherlock, who had long since retreated into his mind palace, hoping to stretch her legs and maybe ask Greg about the car chase, when something caught her eye. Something so alien, yet so familiar, that Molly could have sworn it was just her imagination again. But this time, the flash of blue didn't turn into yet another passing car or bright banner in a shop window; it remained firmly in the shape of a telephone box. A blue telephone box with the words _POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX_ printed above the door. The TARDIS blue door.

Molly was off running before she had even realized her feet were moving. Could her dream, her dream from the past five years, finally be coming true? After all this time, could he really be back? Of course it could, the Doctor always comes back, even if he's late…

Breathless, Molly stopped in front of the blue box, reaching out to brush her fingertips against the wood. It was solid. Real. Definitely not her imagination.

Molly's fingers absently trailed toward the door handle, but before she could think about opening it, the wood suddenly disappeared from under her fingertips and a long, pale face was directly in front of hers.

"Hello, Molly Hooper."

"Doctor!" Molly squealed, throwing her arms around the tall man's neck and nearly knocking him to the ground, laughing joyfully. The Doctor's deeper laugh joined Molly's as he wrapped his long arms around her back, squeezing her tightly before letting her go.

Molly couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Was it fair, that as soon as Sherlock's whole life was ripped away from him, Molly's longest dream finally came true?

Molly pushed these feelings away as she stepped back to appraise her old friend. The Doctor's face glowed with health, his shoes were scuffed and caked with mud, and his bow tie was just the slightest bit askew. He looked...happy.

"You've been keeping good company, then?" Molly asked him, raising the corners of her lips in a smile, but they both felt the real question hanging in the air between them - _You've replaced me, haven't you?_

"Yes," replied the Doctor shortly, dropping his eyes down to the sidewalk. "She's visiting family right now. I got a bit restless, you know me, so I thought I'd drop in and visit an old friend." The Doctor raised his eyes to Molly's, a young, hopeful grin on his face, silently begging her to forgive him.

"She's been good for you," Molly finally replied, unable to keep from grinning when she saw the Doctor's eyes sparkle in relief. He was forgiven.

"Now," said the Doctor, straightening up and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Although I've missed you dearly, Molly Hooper, we both know that a leisurely visit to an old friend isn't the _only_ reason I'm here."

Molly grinned sheepishly, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a small metal device. It was adorned with several switches, and red and green lights blinked on the top surface.

"So it worked, then?" she asked. "I don't even know what it was supposed to do, but I had found it when you were redecorating the TARDIS and throwing bits of scrap everywhere, and I took it for some reason. And kept it. Sentiment, I suppose." Molly chuckled weakly.

"It's an old signaling device," said the Doctor, taking it from Molly's hands and examining it. "I picked this up in an ancient planet in Alpha Centauri...forgot I even had it lying around!"

"Well, I had absolutely no idea what it was, but I found it again when I was cleaning last week and stuck it in my work bag...just to have it there, I guess...and when I needed help, it was the only connection I had to you, so I started flipping switches. Can't believe it worked, to be honest."

"So, Molly Hooper, what's the crisis?" The Doctor glanced down the street, where the police lights were flashing and the wreckage of a car was smashed on the side of a building. "Surely Scotland Yard didn't need any help with the gang robbers?"

Molly shook her head.

"It's...weirder than that. MUCH weirder. And I know you love to deal with weird."

"Has the gang member grown an extra head?" the Doctor joked, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"No," Molly said quietly.

The Doctor's grin faltered.

"The police officer's grown an extra head?"

"No, no, it's..." Molly bit her lip, frustrated. "Remember that time we went to that planet at the edge of the galaxy? The one with the endless oceans, and the suns whose light reflected off the clouds in the most fantastic colours?"

"Of course," replied the Doctor. "Correina. One of my favourites."

"You were telling me stories, about the others you travelled with," continued Molly. "And there was one story with Romans, and a box called the Pandorica..."

"You were listening," the Doctor said, slightly surprised. But of course, Molly Hooper always listened.

"'Course I listened," Molly said softly, glancing back up at the Doctor. "And in the story...somebody died. And they were erased. Completely. Nobody could remember them, except for you."

"Molly, what - " the Doctor began, but Molly held up a hand and cut him off.

"And that person, he came back to life. Nobody remembered him, but he came back. Even though he was gone. And you fixed it."

"Well, yes..." the Doctor said slowly. "But it wasn't that simple, Molly. Do you remember how that story ended?"

"You told me they lived 'happily ever after,'" recounted Molly.

"Yes, that they did," said the Doctor with a sad smile, "but _before_ that, do you remember what had to happen?"

"The universe was rewritten," Molly whispered, and she felt some of the hope drain out of her. "But if something similar was to happen, then would you be able to fix it, like you did then? Would you rewrite the universe so two more people can live happily ever after?" She was pleading now, and Molly knew it, but she couldn't help it. The chances of fixing this seemed even further away than when John had failed to recognize Sherlock after the detective had saved his life, and Molly felt helpless as she fought back tears.

"Molly," said the Doctor slowly, reaching out and taking her hand. "I suggest you tell me exactly what's happened. And I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to fix it."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock blinked his eyes, retreating sluggishly out of his mind palace to take in his surroundings. There were still the flashing lights of the police cars and low murmurs from the officers, but now there was an empty spot on the curb next to the detective. _So even Molly Hooper's left me now,_ Sherlock thought dryly. _Typical._

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, stretching his long limbs as his sharp eyes darted around the scene, searching. And then he found it. Found _him._ John.

John was sitting alone on the open back of an ambulance by the street corner, his short legs dangling a few inches above the ground. A red blanket was draped around his shoulders, but the doctor didn't seem to appreciate it or even notice it as he stared down at the pavement, obviously lost in thought. He didn't seem to have suffered any physical injury, Sherlock noted with relief.

The detective was already striding over to John, with no plan of what he was going to do when he got there. Sherlock's words of concern were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"John, are you okay?"

John glanced up, slightly puzzled, before he took in the tall figure standing in front of him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, smiling weakly. "You were the officer who did that thing...? That saving my life thing? That was...good. Thanks," John finished rather lamely, his friendly gaze dropping back to the pavement with a small frown.

With every word of John's, Sherlock felt himself breaking a little more inside, his soul being crushed by each softly spoken word. He didn't think he could take any more, but he _had_ to, he wanted to hear John speaking to him, to make him _remember_...!

"You have a blanket," Sherlock noted, searching around for anything at all to say, to keep John talking. He awkwardly perched himself on the back of the ambulance next to John, a few inches of space separating them. "That's...good. Who gave it to you?"

"One of the paramedics," replied John, nodding his head over to the other ambulance which was parked several yards down.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked sharply, and John glanced up, bewildered.

"Just one of them...Does it matter?"

"No, no," replied Sherlock hastily. "Forget him. Forget it."

It was silent for a moment before John turned back to Sherlock.

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

Something flashed in John's eyes, and Sherlock nearly jumped to his feet. Was it recognition? Did John remember?

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked John tentatively, who was looking at him with curiosity.

"Nothing," said John, chuckling lightly. "It's just not what you'd expect a Scotland Yard sergeant to be called, is it? Not ordinary enough, I suppose."

"Not a sergeant," murmured Sherlock, but John didn't seem to hear him. To Sherlock's great surprise, when he glanced up to meet John's eye, there were glistening drops trickling silently down the doctor's face.

"You're crying," said Sherlock softly, staring at John with wide eyes. John lifted a hand to his face, and was shocked to see that his fingertips were wet with tears when he pulled it away.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked as more tears fell from John's eyes and his shoulders shook slightly. John took in a shuddering breath, glancing up from his damp fingertips then over to Sherlock in amazement.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's like...it's like I'm happy," John replied, confused and helpless yet somehow sounding a bit accusatory as well. "Why am I happy?"

Sherlock didn't answer, _couldn't_ answer. His brain was buzzing as he gaped at his doctor, barely letting himself hope that this was happening...

Sherlock didn't see John's hand reaching out, so he jumped slightly when he felt John's warm fingers close around his wrist, right over his pulse.

"I don't know why I'm doing that," John whispered, eyes skimming over Sherlock's face.

"John," Sherlock breathed. "It's me. John, please...it's me."

John suddenly pulled his hand away, dropping his eyes from Sherlock's as he stood up.

"But...I don't know you, I've never seen you before in my life!"

"You have," Sherlock pleaded, "John, you know you have. It's me."

John slowly began to back away, the red shock blanket falling from his shoulders and onto the ground.

"Why am I crying?" he asked quietly, flickering his eyes up to meet Sherlock's.

"Because you remember me. I came back! You're crying because you remember me."

Just then, Sherlock felt a horrible pain flash through his head. It felt as though someone had stabbed into his brain with a dagger. The pain had just begun to fade when he felt it again, worse this time. It was like something was trying to _get in_.

"No, stop..." Sherlock muttered as he grabbed the sides of his head with both hands, gritting his teeth and screwing up his eyes. He would fight back, he wouldn't let them in his brain, into his mind...

In this haze of pain and resistance, Sherlock was completely oblivious to the other Scotland Yard officers, who had all momentarily grabbed their own heads in pain, before seeming to recover as they straightened up and gathered together. They organized themselves quickly into an eerily rigid formation, taking something off of their belts and marching together down the street and around the corner.

The thing that was going at Sherlock's brain was becoming more insistent, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out.

"Listen to me, John, you have to run. You have to get as far away from here as you can! Something's trying to get in my brain...I'll kill you. Just go!" Sherlock pressed his palms even harder to his head as the pain heightened again momentarily. "Please, no, I don't want to go. I'm Sherlock! I'm... I'm..."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. World's only consulting detective. My flatmate. My best friend." John said unexpectedly. He reached out and held Sherlock's shoulders tightly. "How could I ever forget you...?"

"John, you've got to run," said Sherlock in desperation, dropping his hands away from his head. But John...John remembered! His John remembered...but Sherlock wasn't able to revel in his joy for very long at all. Something was pulling his hand to his police belt which he hadn't yet taken off and Sherlock struggled to stop it. His trembling hand was moving slowly closer to one of the guns on his belt, one that didn't look like the sort of weapon police officers usually carry. Tranquilizer? Poison? "I can't hold on, I'm going..."

"You are Sherlock Holmes and you are never going anywhere ever again," said John firmly, holding the detective's gaze.

The gun was in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stared determinedly into John's eyes, knowing that he could do it for John, that he could stop the thing in his mind...

There was a sharp noise and John gasped. Sherlock's eyes widened when he looked down to see his finger on the depressed trigger, and his gaze trailed over to see the dart in John's side.

"No," Sherlock whispered, as John doubled over and Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor, quickly pulling the dart out of John's side and holding him close as he lowered them to the ground. "No, no!"

John's body went limp in Sherlock's arms, eyes fluttering shut, and Sherlock let a sob escape.

"No," he breathed again, fingers fumbling for John's wrist. He found it and pressed his fingers to the underside, looking for a pulse. He found it. It was slowing. It was nearly gone.

Sherlock Holmes had killed John Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm fairly certain that the universe is ending. You're missing that. Quite dull, really."

Sherlock was leaning against the tire of the ambulance, John's body draped across his lap. Sherlock's hand had been sitting on John's chest, but he had quickly removed it; feeling the heartbeats grow more sparse and witnessing the gradual slowing rush of blood in and out of his blogger's heart was too much for him to handle. He had settled for one hand resting in John's hair and the other draped about his waist to keep him from slipping from Sherlock's lap to the cold concrete. Sherlock didn't want to know the moment when John's heart stopped beating for good. It could have happened already, it could be in just a few moments, it could be happening _right now_...but Sherlock, for once, didn't feel he could cope with the knowledge.

"The good news is, now that the universe is surely ending, Anderson might be out of our hair. Well, my hair." Sherlock had to clear his throat before continuing. "Although vermin like him might end up surviving the apocalypse with the cockroaches, isn't that the general theory?"

Sherlock's shoulder's hitched as he drew in a shaking breath.

"You would have laughed at that. Please laugh, John..."

But John didn't laugh, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, holding John's limp body closer as he willed himself not to cry.

"You always said that the universe was huge and ridiculous, and that sometimes there were miracles. I called you an idiot, I said miracles were for incapable fools...But I could do with a ridiculous miracle about now."

And when John didn't open his eyes to comment skeptically on the detective's rare words of sentiment, Sherlock Holmes began to cry.

-o-o-o-

"So, where's this friend of yours?" the Doctor asked eagerly, glancing around and rubbing his hands together eagerly. "I mean, this is brilliant! Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective! Never got around to meeting him, but I suppose there's no better time for first introductions than when the whole universe is on the fritz, eh?"

Molly giggled, turning to point to the spot where she and Sherlock had been sitting before Molly had spotted the blue box.

"He's right over...oh." The curb was now empty, completely free of consulting detectives.

"Ah, so he's the 'running off' sort, is he? Come along, Molly Hooper, we'll find him!" called the Doctor, already striding off towards the crime scene.

"Well, I certainly hope so...He's so unpredictable at the best of times, and there's no telling what the self-proclaimed sociopath will do when he's faced with an emotional crisis," said Molly, jogging a bit to catch up with the Doctor before falling into step beside him.

"I've handled paradoxes, the end of the universe, cracks in time and space, armies of deadly aliens...I'm sure I can at least do something about a poor soul getting lost in the twists of the universe," said the Doctor lightly, grinning at Molly, before he turned back to the crime scene, taking in the situation. He stopped walking and the grin quickly fell off of his face. "But what I wasn't quite expecting was a possessed army of police officers marching through London..."

Molly's eyes widened in panic and she grabbed the Doctor's arm.

"Sherlock...do you think...?"

The Doctor stared blankly at her for a split second before he was off running again. The pair reached the corner, where they saw the last of the Scotland Yard officers making the turn at the end of the street.

"I didn't see him," said Molly to the Doctor, with confusion and concern clear across her face.

Over Molly's shoulder, the Doctor glimpsed a huddled figure on the ground next to one of the ambulances.

"I don't suppose that's..." he began uncertainly. Molly followed his gaze, turning to see the detective holding what seemed to be a corpse, what looked like the lifeless body of...

"No," Molly whispered.

Molly rushed over, dropping to one knee and lying a hand on the detective's arm. He didn't even bother to flinch away, simply wincing slightly and pulling the John's limp body closer to his chest. Sherlock wouldn't meet her eye, and when Molly glanced up at his face she saw his cheekbones glistening with tears, the still-flashing lights of the emergency vehicles reflecting in red and blue across his face.

"Sherlock," said Molly softly, but the detective ignored her, staring vacantly down at John's body. Molly reached towards John, trying to shift his head so she could look at the doctor's face and see if he was alright, but Sherlock jerked his body backwards, shielding John from her touch.

"Sherlock," she tried again, a bit louder. "What happened...?"

"Shut up!" he yelled sharply, his head snapping up to glare at Molly. "Just...don't..." Molly could hear his voice breaking, and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from offering some unwanted words of comfort.

The Doctor had joined Molly, kneeling down beside the detective and his doctor, and the Time Lord had an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face.

"Sherlock Holmes," the Doctor said slowly. "I'm the Doctor. And, as I'm sure you've discovered, doctors can usually help when something's gone wrong. So why don't you tell me what happened to Doctor Watson, and I'll see if I can fix it?"

Sherlock was silent for several moments before he spoke, without looking up at either of them, his voice low and dark.

"_Doctor Watson_ is dead. I killed him. My only friend. _I killed John Watson._" Sherlock lifted his head to glare at them. "Are you happy?"

"I can't say that I am overjoyed, no," said the Doctor sadly, fiddling with the buttons on the side of his sonic screwdriver, before he scanned it across John's body as it made a gentle whirring noise.

"I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Sherlock," said Molly, who had tears sliding quietly down her face. She wasn't sure if she was crying more for the loss of John Watson, or the sorrow of Sherlock Holmes, who was left alone in the dark yet again.

"Obviously it was my fault," Sherlock snapped. "I shot John. John died. I let it get into my brain, I let it make me kill him...Explain to me how that's not my fault."

"Well, for starters, John Watson is not dead," the Doctor said suddenly, staring at the readings of his sonic screwdriver.

"Don't say that," Sherlock hissed. "Just don't. I killed him. His heart stopped beating."

"Did it, though?" inquired the Doctor, raising an eyebrow. Molly didn't miss the hint of triumph in his expression.

Sherlock stared at him disbelievingly for a moment, before his gaze returned to John. The doctor was as immobile and lifeless as ever, but what if...

Sherlock gently reached for John's wrist, which was hanging down towards the pavement, and closed his fingertips around the soft skin.

There was nothing.

Sherlock was ready to leap off of the ground, to attack that oafish friend of Molly's for saying that, for giving him false hope that maybe, _maybe_, Sherlock hadn't killed the best man he had ever known, that there was a chance that the detective hadn't ruined his whole life again...

But then he felt it. It was weak and barely discernible, and although Sherlock wasn't sure it had actually happened, the detective's breath caught his nonetheless. And, barely seconds later, there it was again. The heartbeat of John Watson. Who was not dead, but _alive._

All of Sherlock's attention was focused on John now, feeling the slow but now steady rush of blood through his veins with each weak heartbeat, watching John's face intently for any signs of consciousness.

The Doctor watched this, a small satisfied smile on his thin face. Molly had started crying even more, but now grinning as she turned her head to look over at the Doctor.

The Doctor, however, did not seem to be in quite such a sentimental mood.

"Now!" he cried, leaping to his feet and stretching his arms up over his head momentarily. "I believe we have an army of Scotland Yard officers to locate and quite possibly make _un-possessed._"

"It looked like they were heading towards St. Bart's," offered Molly, and the Doctor's face immediately lit up. He ran over to her and caught her in a tight hug.

"Molly Hooper, you are brilliant!" he cried in delight as he let her go and positively danced around in circles. "If it was a crack in the universe that caused this...well, a small one, probably no more than a fracture...then it makes sense that the force that got into their heads is pulling them towards the source of the power! And if Sherlock was pulled through the crack immediately after he fell...Oh, this is just fantastic!"

The Doctor had started running off in the path the possessed officers had taken.

"I'll be right back! Don't you dare run off anywhere!" he yelled back over his shoulder, before he turned the corner and disappeared.

Molly watched him go, unable to hold back an elated giggle. She didn't understand half of what the Doctor had just said, but she had never doubted this madman once in her life.

Molly went back to sit next to Sherlock against the side of the ambulance, whose angular face was still held in an expression of awe as the detective's hand lay flat across John's chest, feeling the more and more frequent heartbeats pumping life through his body. The other hand drifted in front of John's face, feeling the light breaths ghosting out from between John's slightly parted lips.

"John's alive," Sherlock breathed in wonder, still staring transfixed at his Doctor.

Molly's face broke into a lopsided grin as she looked at the pair, glimpsing the happiness in Sherlock's sparkling eyes.

"I know."


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor sprinted around the corner, his long limbs flailing in every direction as he flew down the sidewalk in pursuit of a troop of possessed Scotland Yard officers. They weren't far ahead, marching slowly and steadily down the road to their destination, which was undeniably St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Their movements were eerily in sync enough to make the Doctor shudder involuntarily.

The Doctor picked up his speed as they came more into sight - if he could beat them there, if he could get rid of the source, then he might be able to make this whole situation much simpler.

The officers all had their guns raised, military-style, as they marched, but luckily they either didn't see or ignored the Doctor as he bypassed them, hastily waving his sonic screwdriver in their direction as he overtook them.

"Ah, as I thought," he muttered, holding the screwdriver up directly in front of his eyes as he ran, observing the results of the brief scan. "Some external force knitting their brainwaves together, pulling them towards a common source, will probably absorb them, blahbbity blah blah..."

The Doctor tumbled to a halt several feet from the brick exterior of St. Bart's. Down at his feet (right at the spot where Sherlock Holmes had hit the pavement, although the Doctor didn't know this) was a long, slender crack, glowing the brightest white.

"Oh," the Doctor breathed, chuckling lightly as he squatted down beside the thin crack. "Is this all? You were the one who caused all of this fuss? Just a tiny little fracture in the pavement?"

The crack glowed briefly brighter, as if in retaliation to the Doctor's words.

"Well, alright, a fracture in the pavement and in the foundation of time and space, but honestly, I was expecting some sort of apocalypse at the end of this road, not a tiny - " The crack in the universe flashed brightly again. " - but, of course, incredibly powerful and, to some, a bit terrifying, split in the framework of everything that holds life together as we know it."

The Doctor heard the heavy fall of marching footsteps behind him, causing him to glance back; he had been talking for longer than he thought.

"Whoops, alright, sorry I can't chat longer, but I've got a universe to keep intact, you see, bye now!" he said, aiming his sonic screwdriver at the glowing fracture in the pavement. With a force that caused the ground to rumble, the concrete fused itself back together, pushing that brilliant glowing away until it was gone and that extraordinary stretch of pavement looked ordinary once more.

The Scotland Yard officers, now only several yards behind the Doctor, had stopped marching. Many were grabbing their heads and muttering in confusion, others casting horrified glances at their outstretched guns and new location.

As he passed, the Doctor offered different explanations to them, allowing their normal yet brilliant human minds to choose the one they liked best to explain what had just happened.

"Wasn't that an awful earthquake we had there?"

"God, I've never smelled such strong fumes from a factory mishap before, have you?"

As soon as the Doctor got out of their earshot, he closed his eyes and did a little twirl.

"Oh, that was brilliant! Can you believe that the worst of it was solved so quickly? Of course, if every problem was that simple, then what fun would there be in fixing them? But oh, that was fun..."

The Doctor opened his eyes, turning his head to the side and beaming, but there was no one there.

"Oh," he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn't used to this "travelling alone" thing. He had vaguely thought that Molly might have followed after him when he took off after the Scotland Yarders, but she had found someone new to be loyal to now.

The Doctor smiled sadly as he continued back towards the TARDIS, towards the little girl who had grown up, towards two people who had lost each other then found each other again.

Towards home, some may say.

Although it was not his home.


End file.
